Le Prêtre Perdu
by Dostoevsky's Mouse
Summary: What if Claude Frollo was not merely an alchemist, but a genuine conjurer of spirits? ...Well, it might explain a lot, actually. work in progress


Most of the characters in here belong to Victor Hugo, except for Asmodei, whose basic history, at least, belongs to the registers of demonology. Like all of my HoND stories, this one is based on the novel, not the musical or any of the films. It also draws quite a bit from the Faust myth, although I wouldn't call it a crossover -- I think Hugo had _Faust_ very much in mind when he wrote _The Hunchback of Notre-Dame_, and I'm just playing with a slightly more literal interpretation of Frollo-as-Faust. I may change the title... not sure about that yet.

I put off posting this fic for a while, since I'm writing it so slowly, but I've finally decided to go ahead and put it up. I'm not sure how often I'll be able to update -- but (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) reviews always help!

(And, er, if anyone is wondering, I haven't actually abandoned Mirrors of Numenor... it's just not cooperating at the moment, so I'm posting this instead.)

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**Le Prêtre Perdu**

1

Claude Frollo was not, by nature, a patient man; and for this reason if no other, it is possible that he had made a mistake in conjuring the demon Asmodei.

When the first stroke of midnight sounded, he cursed—and he might well have gone on cursing until the final stroke, had not the grinding forbearance of his piety held him back. As it was, he collected himself and was silent; but his frustration still betrayed itself in the hard lines of his face, and he found he could not summon the earnestness to repent. The night was growing long, the candles were burning down, and he was tired. As a priest, of course, Claude Frollo was well rehearsed in the slow labor of waiting, of suffering his most earnest supplications to fall echoless as into some deep black well, where even God could hear nothing—but tonight his summons was not for God, and he had come to expect a more eager punctuality from the host of the Other.

The taut threads of his temperance were wearing thin, and his robes, be it said, were in a similar condition. On the stone floor of the cloister cell, his legs were cold, and his knees were beginning to ache. The uneven flags dug into his shins.

He uttered no more curses, but he breathed out a prolonged and ragged sigh such as to put all Job's bitter wailing to shame, and bent upon the triangle chalked in front of him a gaze that could have withered a basilisk. Then, weary even of this exertion, he set down his dagger and cupped his face in his hands. All the spells, the tedious formalities—he had had enough of them. Ceremony be damned!

He had redrawn the circle once already, in concession that it was not quite perfectly round. He had adjusted the placement of the four burning censers. He had even attached to the front of his white linen gown, as he rarely took the trouble to do, the seal of Asmodei in gold, and that of Solomon in scarlet. He had followed the texts to the very letter. Yet Asmodei, that stubborn devil of a spirit, displayed not the least inclination toward appearing; and the hours kept dropping away, as fruitless as prayers into that echoless well.

There was no point in any further rearrangement: he had checked his compasses a score of times, and they all agreed that the east had not moved. The holy names were chalked impeccably in the four quarters of the circle; there was no need to rewrite them. Neither was there any need to burn more incense, for the room verily reeked of the stuff. Everything was in order.

And so—for, as he insisted to himself, the final time—he picked up his dagger and lifted the blade skyward. "O Lord God Almighty," he began; but he heard the bitterness in his voice, and he stopped. After a pause, he tried again, more slowly, with as much humility as he could muster:

"O Lord God Almighty, who liveth eternally unto the ages of the ages: I praise thee, I adore thee, I glorify thee."

He fixed his gaze within the triangle.

"Spirit Asmodei, first under the powers of Amaymon, who bearest rule by the power of the Supreme God El over all spirits of the Infernal Orders in the Dominion of the East, I do invocate and conjure thee. I force, I compel, I exhort thee by the seal of David, by the Nine Pentacles, by Adonai, Elohim, Shaddai, Eheieh, Tzabaoth—by these names and by all the other Holy Names of God, before whom no man can stand and live, I potently exorcise and command thee to come hither, to present thyself, and to do forthwith all which I shall enjoin thee."

And he waited.

Silence.

Not a wisp of smoke.

He thrust the dagger higher, straining against tired muscles. "I command thee with vehemence!" he said, gripping the seal of Asmodei on his breast. "I exorcise thee with constancy! Obey thou! Behold the Symbols and the Names of the Creator, who rideth upon the Cherubim, who moveth upon the Wings of the Wind, who spoke and it was done! Obey!"

The flames on the censers flickered.

"By the Crown of the Chief of thy Emperors, and by the Scepters of thy power, I constrain thee! By the Seal of the Sun, which is the Word of God, and by the Seal of the Moon and of the Stars, I bind thee!"

Nothing.

"I bind thee!"

Nothing.

"I _bind_ thee!"

But the room was perfectly still. Even the faintly dancing shadows that played against the stone walls seemed subdued and indifferent, and the only sound to be heard was the soft panting of Claude Frollo's quickened breath. He lowered the knife.

His arm was numb from the prolonged elevation, and his hand tingled when he stretched his fingers. Sinking forward, heaving another labored sigh; but there was nothing more he could do. He had exhausted his store of entreaties.

Then, all at once, the flames flickered again, and the soft rustling of cloth met Claude's ears.

"Art thou Asmodei?" he demanded quietly.

He heard the demon chuckle: a suffusive sound, like poison inking a chalice with slow black tendrils.

"Sh'mi Ad, Ad sh'm. What dost thou wish, and wherefore hast thou caused me to come hither from the Infernal Abodes?"

"Ingrate!" spat Claude, unfolding himself from the floor against the protest of his stiffened legs. "I have been half the night waiting for you. And do you come now quoting the texts, as if you'd acquired some sudden penchant for formality? _Croix-dieu_! You astound me. And I see you are as overdressed as usual."

The demon Asmodei did in fact present a rather foppish spectacle, dressed up as he was in the most elegant array of fine materials—embroidered black hose, pointed boots, and a close, pleated doublet of perfectly matched purple and vermilion, girdled with a black belt and decorated along the sleeves with dozens of useless gilt buttons. His flat, velvet beret was cocked jauntily to one side, and his hair fell down in shiny black ringlets around his smooth features. Even the dagger that hung at his belt looked newly polished, its gold hilt flashing, studded with rubies and amethysts.

Claude glanced over all this showy glitter with disdain, and the demon smiled lazily. "You are not, if I may say so, a man of fashionable taste, Dom Claude," he remarked. "But next time, you're welcome to adjure in the name of whatever you please that I attire myself in something more to your liking."

"Be silent," muttered Claude, tucking his knife away in his robe. "You will henceforward be prompt in your arrival. When one is summoned in the name of the Lord of Hosts, one does not tarry like a peasant boy called in from the field."

"You'll recall that today is neither Saturday nor Wednesday," Asmodei remarked.

"I have summoned you on Mondays before."

"And how old is the moon, would you say? A moon on the fifth night is hardly profitable to sorcery."

"Wretch!" Claude started forward with closed fists, but did not leave the circle. "I am not some paltry magician to be toyed with according to the names of days and hours, and the age of the moon. When I call to you in the name of Adonai, the Apocalypse itself shall not detain you. You will fly with the speed of the four winds. Do I make myself clear?"

The demon still smiled. "You certainly are irritable tonight," he said. "You must be fasting again."

Claude held his gaze for a long moment with a fiery look, but when he spoke again, his voice had leveled.

"Are you responsible for the gypsy girl who dances before my window?"

"Gypsy girl?" said Asmodei, and after a puzzled blink he laughed sharply. "The devil! What new madness is this? To look at you, I should have supposed you were about to confess a murder—but instead! What on earth do you want with a gypsy girl?"

"I want to know if you are responsible for her," Claude repeated.

"My dear Archdeacon, this may surprise you, but although my promiscuity is widely known, and my predilection for gypsies not less so, it would be absurd to infer that I had personally sired every pagan child in the city of Paris. I haven't the slightest idea which gypsy girl you mean."

"She is called La Esmeralda," said Claude. He added, half under his breath, "The name alone suggests your meddling."

Asmodei stepped to the window, carelessly scuffing the black and crimson edges of the magic triangle as if it had been merely some child's drawing. All was dark outside; there was nothing to be seen. The demon stood and looked into the empty streets without speaking.

"I'm certain that you sent her," Claude went on. "You think I will throw myself into the fire after her—that I'll follow her to damnation. Confess it. Is she not one among your legions?"

"What an imagination you have!" said Asmodei, unmoving. "She must be pretty, this girl?"

"She is a fit rival for Helen. Paris the man would have burned with jealousy to see her in the arms of Paris the city. John the Baptist would have handed over his own head, if he had seen her dance."

"Indeed? All that over a gypsy street-girl? Remarkable."

With a regretful shake of his head, the demon turned back around. "As much as I should love to claim some complicity in this affair, Dom Claude, I'm afraid I've had none. If you've fallen for this girl, the blame lies elsewhere than on me."

"A lie," said Claude. "You've stepped out of the triangle."

Asmodei snorted. He walked back to the triangle and crossed his arms, as one humoring a ridiculous whim. "I have nothing to do with her," he said.

"Impossible. I adjure you to tell the truth. She is a demon, a sorceress, an angel of the fallen orders, an infernal spirit—"

"I'm afraid not."

Claude gripped the seals on his gown. "The truth! In the name of Elohim, Anaphoditon, Shaddai—"

"Really, master," chided Asmodei. "Let's not go through that again."

He had already moved back toward the window and was examining the chafing dish of incense which stood there. It had nearly gone out. He picked up Claude's poker from the floor and moved the coals around in the pan below, so that it began to smoke again.

"It seems to me, Dom Claude, that you are overreacting," the demon observed, rubbing his hands together over the dish. "You've seen your share of pretty girls, and what harm has it done you? You aren't some lusty youth who can't control his passions. I would have thought this sort of thing had become routine for you."

"It had," muttered Claude. "But this is no _pretty girl_, Asmodei: she is a devil; she surpasses mortal beauty. She has hooked her claws into my soul. The faculties of my intellect have deserted me, until even the words of scripture seem to run on like strings of ants across the pages, and mean nothing. I have forgotten how to pray. My mind is full of adulterous things over which I have no control. My dreams are repulsive."

"_Your_ dreams are always repulsive," Asmodei remarked.

"Not like this."

Sighing, the demon turned around and looked at him. "And what do you want from me?"

"I want to be rid of her," said Claude.

Asmodei cocked his head with a smile.

"Oh, I think we can do better than that."

He brushed off his hands on the skirts of his doublet and wandered to the opposite side of the chamber, touching objects at random. Claude Frollo glowered at him.

"I want you to remove her," he said. "Take her someplace where I will not see her again. I insist upon it."

"It's a curious habit of yours, to ask for the opposite of what you desire."

"What I desire is no business of yours. I am telling you what I demand."

"Quite on the contrary." Asmodei picked up the bowl of anointing oil from the table beside Claude's bed and swirled it around, then set it back in its place. "What you demand is no business of mine at all, unless you intend to make it worth my while. What you desire, on the other hand..." His white teeth flashed. "Well. I may be able to arrange something in that quarter."

He turned his attention to another bowl, which was full of a clear liquid, and he reached to pick it up.

"Don't touch that," said Claude.

"Aha. Exorcised water." Asmodei splashed it playfully with the tips of his fingers, and the water hissed. "I suppose you'll have to exorcise it again."

Claude Frollo took a long, slow breath to compose himself. He turned his gaze down to the floor.

"You know that I saw you with her. You looked at me, and you laughed."

"Did I?"

"You did. And you knew that I recognized you. Is that not one of your aspects—the goat? That lecherous satyr among animals, that walking emblem of witchcraft..."

"A _goat_?" said Asmodei, and his cool amusement gave way to a fit of sudden laughter. "Dom Claude, you're making yourself look foolish. I'm associated with the ram, which admittedly bears some resemblance to the goat; but the one is not the other. And even if this animal really did laugh at you—a thing I consider highly doubtful—that is hardly proof of _my_ involvement. You must know that there is scarcely a soul in Paris who fails to laugh when you pass by, luckless pillar of hypocritical piety that you are. It's only a testament to your irresistible comicality that even quadrupeds can't help—"

"Enough!" shouted the priest, his hollow cheeks burning. "Return to your place! I forbid you to speak."

Asmodei looked at him sideways with one eyebrow raised, a smile still lingering on his lips.

"You know I can bring her to you."

"I forbid it," said Claude.

"I can make her want you as much as you want her."

"_I forbid it_," Claude repeated. But his voice shook.

"It's a pity. She could dance on this very spot—just for you. A whirl of tinsel and dark hair... A young girl spinning barefoot on these very stones, with flying skirts and flashing eyes... Can you see her? In the firelight like this..."

"Be silent!" cried Claude, trembling. "Be silent, demon of lechery! I do not want her!"

"It would be so easy... She would look at you with such wide eyes, such ruddy cheeks, all disheveled and aglow... She would throw herself into your arms..."

"To your place! By the power of the Most High and Imperial, the Lord God of Hosts, Jehovah, I curse thee into the depths of the Bottomless Abyss, there to remain until the Day of Doom in chains, unless thou instantly remove thyself to the triangle before this circle, and obey in all things I shall command!"

Shaking his head, Asmodei strode forward until his boots were almost touching the edge of the circle, and Claude drew back with his arms upraised. When Asmodei laughed, his black locks bounced heavily against his collar like the coiled serpents of Medusa.

"You forget, Dom Claude, that I am fallen from the Order of the Seraphim. It took the ring of Solomon to chain me. And you are a mere child." He offered his hand. "I can make you a king, my friend. I can compass you with a thousand gypsy maidens, and deck them with all the gold of Ophir. Or are you still too proud for that?"

Claude Frollo was shaking violently, and he stared at the demon's outstretched hand with a look of terror, as if he expected it to strike. He grabbed the dagger out of his robe and raised it up again, without kneeling. He shut his eyes. "Begone, O spirit Asmodei, by the glorious and incomprehensible Names—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake. I'll not hear this again."

"...of the Almighty Lord..."

But there was another rustle of cloth, and when Claude opened his eyes again, he found himself alone.


End file.
